calculated gambles
by trinketts
Summary: Just be in love with the boy with the bread, Katniss. Her heart refuses to comply, punctuates its defiance by fluttering at a million miles an hour when Effie arrives to fetch her.
1. Chapter 1

"Remember, sweetheart: you're in love with the boy."

The voice echoes in her mind, a taunting descant that refuses to be silent. It's excruciating, of course, because it isn't true, not even a little. God, she's such a fuck up. Just be in love with the boy with the bread, Katniss. The boy who's loved you all along. The boy who wants to save you. The _boy_, for Christ's sake.

Her heart refuses to comply, punctuates its defiance by fluttering at a million miles an hour when Effie arrives to fetch her. That is how Effie does things, on the surface: she _fetches, _and she _trills, _and she_ struts. _She exudes some earmarked Capitol essence, something that would normally drive Katniss insane. Should drive her insane. (It does, actually, but this insanity falls on the opposite side of the spectrum from annoyance, where it belongs.) Her breath catches instantly as she takes in Effie: her powdery pale pink curls, her impeccably tailored costume, the faint crow's feet that form at her eyes when she smiles, which is, of course, all the time. They really are polar opposites, a perfect contrast. She notices a flicker of frantic relief in Effie's eyes before she composes herself, announces that this is a _big big big _day and they have a schedule to stick to.

Stupid fucking schedule. All she wants is to duck behind one of those unmarked doors and press Effie up against a wall, to taste skin and salt and honeysuckle lips. There will be time for that later, hopefully, but the promise of touching is never quite as sweet as instantaneous collision. She follows obediently down the hall, head down, eyes averted. She doesn't share Effie Trinket's acting skills; it is all she can do to continue walking and not ravish her. A look would decimate whatever resolve she's managed to scrape up. They reach the end of the corridor; she's ready to be handed off to Cinna. At least, she thinks that's what happens. They don't show this part. In the eye of the public, victors go straight from half-crazed and half-dead and all-desperate to sparkling, glittering kings and queens twirling in gowns or looking dapper in suits, bantering with Caesar Flickerman as if they hadn't just witnessed or participated in the murders of twenty-three children.

Cinna is there, with Portia. The rest of Peeta's prep team is there, too, but Octavia and Flavius and Venia are conspicuous in their absence. Peeta shuffles off in a haze of perfume and neon hues; Haymitch disappears, probably to find a drink. And then it's just the three of them, Effie and Cinna and Katniss. Something is off. Surely she should be lying on a table while the physical manifestations of the Games are scrubbed off her. A look passes between Effie and Cinna, weighting the air with scandal. "So, Katniss," Cinna says, feigning nonchalance. "Sometimes we let escorts talk to their tributes, get a head start on strategizing for the interviews, discuss posture and all that." He grins and directs them to a plain steel door. "Effie will let me know when you're ready for us."

The room is simple but luxurious, decorated sparsely with a simple leather ottoman and a velvet futon. That'll suit their purposes just fine, though. She considers mentioning the fact that Cinna knows; this is a liability, or at least she's sure Effie sees it that way. Risks have been taken, proof that this is something tangible and worth fighting for. She decides against confrontation almost immediately: words aren't necessary right now. In fact, they'd be a poor utilization of mouths, considering the circumstances. Effie takes control, as she so often does. The slippery leather is cool under Katniss' back. The kisses are larger than life. Her nerves magnify everything a thousand times over, every sense is on fire and every touch encourages the flames. They fade too soon, though, and she crashes over Effie's shoulder and kisses a clavicle. Effie sighs: it's a beautiful sound, so disconnected from the kinds of verbs she normally associates with her.

"Well," Effie murmurs with a resumed Capitol affectation, "I think it's time we get you off to Cinna so he can make you beautiful." She drops the accent. "More beautiful, I mean." They linger by the open door. They take a calculated gamble, lean in for one last kiss.

Of course, fortuities, even when they seem certain, can be catastrophic. Case in point: the boy with the bread is standing in the hall, mouth agape.


	2. Chapter 2

"I, um. Effie? I have to go. Now. I'll be back." She darts off with no further explanation.

She runs to meet Peeta at the end of the hallway, drags him through the first door she sees.

"You can't tell. You can't." She feels awful, then: selfish, because she sees the heartbreak in his eyes as she thinks of nothing but her own consequences and pleads with him. She decides to try a different tactic. "Look, I'm so fucking sorry."

He looks startled for a moment, then hopeful. Oh god. He really does love her, so much it's pathetic. Too much.

"Peeta…" she trails off, unsure where to go. She can't lie and say she loves him. "I wish, more than anything, that I could feel about you the way you do about me. Honestly. Not just because it would be easier, but because you're great. You deserve it. Actually, you probably deserve far better than me."

"But you don't." He tries to shrug. "It's okay. I won't tell."

"You won't?" Her voice cracks.

"Of course not. Just because we left the Games doesn't mean I'm going to stop protecting you. But Katniss? I know what it's like to love someone and not have the words to convey it to them- you should at least try. It really does help." He gets up, walks past her, and turns the corner.

x

Effie is still in the room with the velvet, makeup smudged and wig forgotten on the floor: a liability. Her real curls are strawberry blonde, softer than the false fibers. "Where did you run off to, darling?"

"I had to talk to Peeta." Katniss gulps. They haven't spoken about the cake baker yet; the romance they have exists outside of the world they live in, outside of Snow's reign and messy false love implications and pristine arenas where children hack each other up while a nation watches intently. She'd like for it to remain there, an incarnated fantasy.

Plus, his words are still reeling in her mind. What had he even meant? Was he talking about she and Effie? He must've been. Could he see it, in the one kiss that was full of everything theirs had lacked? Tenderness and affection masking fear, putting on a brave front and doing the talking so they didn't need to vocalize their insecurities.

Effie raises an eyebrow, waits for Katniss to offer up further explanation.

"He saw us," she explains. "Just now. But it's okay, he won't tell."

Of course he's not going to tell. The poor bastard is head over heels for Katniss, wouldn't dream of hurting her even if Snow had him tortured. But why is Katniss still so on edge?

"Did he… say anything else?"

"Well, uh. He said I should tell you that I love you." Effie opens her mouth to respond, shuts it when she realizes Katniss has a speech. "So. Effie Trinket. I'm in love with you, and I have been maybe since my first reaping when I saw you and hope mixed with the dread in my stomach because if my name was called I'd get to be near you, probably since Prim's name was called and I got up on that stage and most likely since you helped prepare me and gave me the strength to _win, _you, not Peeta, and absolutely definitely one hundred percent since today, since seeing you when I walked out of the arena and realizing you talked to Cinna and seeing you right now with your real hair cascading over your shoulders sprawled out across velvet. I love you."

Effie smiles placidly, chirps in her accent, "Well then. Today has been an _exciting _day. Come on, I'll take you to your room so you can get some sleep." She waits until Katniss' face falls; it's mean, but teasing her is too much fun. Murmurs without any trace of Capitolesque artificiality, "I love you, too, Mockingjay."


End file.
